


When You're Worn Out and Tired (I'll Cover You)

by MandyPrintz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandyPrintz/pseuds/MandyPrintz
Summary: In a universe where you feel the same pain your soulmate endures, you spend your days in agony. The chronic pain that comes with your specific soulmate often has you wondering what you did to become bonded to such a careless person, but things quickly start to make sense after you find yourself on the wrong side of an armed robber.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 210





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What even are summaries? Jesus, that was a bad one. Anyway, the title is from the musical Rent. 
> 
> This is the first thing I've actually published in, like, 2 years and until now, all my Marvel stuff was strictly for tumblr so pls be kind. OK THANK YOU, ENJOY.

Confetti cannons burst all around you and shouts fill the air signaling the mark of a new year, but you can’t help but sink into the corner of the party, letting the darkness be your cover when you slump against the wall in pain. 

The bastard never even took a holiday off. 

Your absence is noticed at the same moment a sharp, stabbing pain pierces you through the left shoulder, just below the collarbone. A weak cry escapes your clenched jaw and by the time the pain throbs through your chest and upper arm, a few of your coworkers surround you in the corner, offering you ice from their cocktails and a hand off the ground. 

It’s no use. You know this is the kind of pain that won’t be dulled, so you wave off the majority and allow your closest work friend to help you to the quiet of the hallway. She gives you a moment for the pain to subside, and when it seems safe to speak, she softly whispers, “soulmate?” 

Giving a weak nod, you croak, “Yeah.  _ Shit,  _ that was a good one too.” You rub absently at the flesh of your shoulder. “I think the fucker got stabbed.” Then, adding in a soft mumble, “Thanks, Heather.” 

“ _ STABBED!? _ Who is this guy, Rambo?” Before you can stop her, she’s pacing up and down the hallway, ranting animatedly into thin air, her fingers fluttering around her face as she speaks with her hands. You manage to zone back in just to catch the end of her rant, “...and who even just gets  _ stabbed _ out of the blue like that!? If this was the first time, I would say he got mugged or something but it’s not even close!” 

Managing a weak chuckle, you stop her. “Hon, it might not be a he, remember that. And I don’t think they just got stabbed out of  _ nowhere _ . Seems like they’ve been scufflin’ all night. On and off.” Finally giving up, you kick out of your heels and slide down the wall to sit.

“Is that why you had that uncomfortable look when the boss-man made his big holiday party speech?” She sneers, “I just thought it was at that sad, sexist attempt at a joke.”

“No, no,” you giggle, “that face  _ was _ at that joke...but my knuckles were pretty tingly at that point, so they must have been throwing some punches.” 

“Girl!” Heather whines, taking a seat on the floor next to you and pulling you in to rest your head on her shoulder. “You’ve got to meet them. Or at least start  _ trying _ ! I hate seeing you like this.” 

The only answer you can give her is another shallow nod as an itchy sort of pain licks up your back, the feeling of non-existent grit and gravel rubbing your skin raw.

***

You gave up on the concept of soulmates long before you even knew you had one. 

You were supposed to start feeling your soulmate around the same time you hit puberty, that’s how it worked. When both you and your soulmate are of age, you start to feel each other’s pain, no matter how big or small. Soul Ache, as the experts called it, never left a mark of its own, and rarely lasted any longer than the initial cause of the pain, but boy did it feel real as all get out when it happened. You remember growing up hearing stories of how your father, a homebody, would constantly suffer phantom bumped elbows and scraped knees, wasp stings while indoors and blows to the chest knocking the wind out of him as your adventurous mother fell out of her third tree of the day. You often wondered how two people so different were bonded together as soulmates, but whenever you would ask your mother would just sigh softly and ruffle your hair. In a sing-song voice she’d tell you, “no matter how alike or how different, near or far, the universe knows who you’re meant to love. And baby loved, you are.”

As you entered your preteen and teenage years, kids all over school were purposely bumping into lockers and pinching their friends shoulders, giggling and chattering excitedly about how their soulmate should be feeling the pain any moment now. They made it easy to laugh at them -- why would you wish pain on the one you’re bonded to? The mere concept of sharing your soulmate’s pain baffled you. Why on Earth would you endure the pain of two bodies, just to meet one single person eventually.  _ Maybe _ ! Some people aren’t even so lucky. 

So when your friends excitedly felt the pain of paper cuts not there and worried about their person’s broken arm while cradling their own, you were glad for once to be an outsider. 

Still in the back of your mind, you were curious why you weren’t feeling the same things your classmates were. Clearly you were at the right age, everything else that was supposed to happen has happened, you knew all the signs to look out for, but still, nothing! Was your soulmate sheltered? A bubble boy hidden away from the world and protected from all harm? Were they just  _ really  _ careful? Maybe they were just too young, and you would start to feel them soon. 

You held onto that hope through middle school, and high school, but as you got older and still hadn’t felt anything you started to worry. Could your soulmate  _ really _ be so much younger than you? The thought of the person you’re meant to be bonded to for the rest of your life not even being twelve to your eighteen...it just didn’t feel right. 

The summer after your first year of college, everything changed. 

You were at the beach, savoring a rare sunny day in your state with your family, laying in the sun and listening to a Frank Sinatra record on your mom’s portable player. Your dad teased you, calling you the hipster spokeswoman, but your mother quickly shushed him by begging him to dance with her to  _ Come Fly With Me _ . Their toes kicked sand up onto your legs as you watched them and laughed.

You weren’t even sure anything was happening until it was too much to bear. A muscle soreness, an almost numb sort of ache settled in your bones. At first you wrote it off as stiffness from laying on your back too long, but when you flipped over, the exposed skin on your back started to prickle, the sort of pain you get as blood rushes back to a limb that was long asleep. You wince in discomfort, but again push it aside. Soon enough the sensation was sweeping across your whole body, your limbs stiff and hard to move from the bone-deep ache in them, your joints frozen in place. 

You started to tear up, and expressed the feeling to your parents, who quickly packed up the car and rushed to the emergency room. 

Test after test, nothing could tell you what was wrong, and the pain had subsided after a few hours anyway, it was like it was never there. You could taste the bitterness on your tongue when one of the nurses patted your shoulder and smiled. Offering a happy, “Congratulations! It looks like you’ve found your soulmate after all!” 

At first you refused to accept the half-hearted diagnosis. 

You were 19. There’s no way your soulmate JUST hit puberty. God, the idea made your stomach churn, you had grown so comfortable with not having one. 

But as the days passed, things started to become clearer. Sharp pinpricks riddled your skin. The painful sting of an IV being inserted, the evidence of medical exams pulling you from your thoughts at random, phantom pains all over your body. It started to make sense. 

Friends, coworkers, your mother...they all seemed so happy for you, congratulating you and insisting to take you out for ice cream to celebrate, and while you enjoyed the quality time spent with them, something still felt  _ wrong _ deep in your stomach. You spent most of the summer trying to pinpoint why you were feeling that way, until it hit you. 

Or rather, it hit your soulmate. Hard. 

You spent a whole week in bed. Day after day of near constant pain. Raw knuckles, sharp blows to the face and chest that left a burn for way longer than you expected they would. At one point, your whole right side took a hit, like you’d fallen from a high height and landed on concrete. Your mom tried her best, bringing you hot tea and ice packs, pain killers galore, but even she knew that nothing dulls a Soul Ache. Nothing except meeting your soulmate, that is.

As you lay in bed, sobbing and hugging a hot water bottle, you decided you now knew why it was you had that bad feeling in your stomach. 

They were going to die -- and there wasn’t a thing you could do to stop it. 


	2. Chapter 2

Before Steve Rogers went into the ice, he didn’t have any time to worry about his soulmate. If you asked him, he didn’t really think he had one. 

Before the serum, he was always in pain. Be it sickness or an all-too-common beating from some jerk he had the moxie to stand up to, there was always something hurting him, so he never gave a second thought to  _ what _ might be causing him pain. 

Bucky gave him shit for it, of course. “C’mon!” He would chuckle, “Ignorin’ me and my double-dates is one thing, but how’re you ever gonna land a nice gal if you ignore the  _ universe _ !?” 

Steve would simply roll his eyes. Too much else to worry about right now rather than going doll dizzy. 

Then he met Erskine and everything changed. 

He experienced damn near the worst pain he could imagine as they pumped him full of that serum, but the second he stepped out of that chamber? God! He’d never felt better. 

Pain was hard to come by after that. Not unheard of, by any means, but when he felt it, he  _ knew _ why. 

At one point he even had half a mind to think Peggy Carter was his soulmate. He sure felt something fierce for her, and she gave him comfort and guidance through his journey from meek little Steven Rogers to THE Captain America. She promised him a dance as he went down, and he knew then that he loved her. 

But then he woke up, and it was 66 years later.

As he muttered that small, “I had a date... “ his heart broke in two, but he found the smallest comfort in knowing that he would never cause his soulmate pain, because God knows how long gone they are by now. 

He was able to give his all, to fully devote himself to be the hero people saw him as, and he didn’t need to worry about holding back in fear of hurting his person, and he did so with a passion. He does so through the first defeat of Loki, through the Chitauri invasion, and Loki’s second demise. When the Winter Soldier became a threat and after finding out his true identity, he was able to devote 100% to dismantling S.H.I.E.L.D. from the inside out to take down HYDRA. 

No matter what the universe threw at the world, he was all in to protect it. 

The winter after Ultron, things took yet another turn. 

Things were quiet for the Avengers. Minor level threats here and there, but nothing to sneeze at in comparison to some of the first battles he's faced since 2011. He and Natasha were able to train and perfect the new team without much interruption. 

So then why was this pain in his abdomen persisting? It was near nothing at first, a soreness from pushing himself too far on a workout with Sam, perhaps, but it grew sharper, angrier, and more persistent, until it had him doubled over in the middle of a spar with Natasha. 

After his description of the sensation, she laughs, “big bad Captain America’s getting taken down by a tiny little case of appendicitis? Cute. Let’s get you down to medical.” 

Natasha tugs on his sleeve to get him to follow, but he plants himself on the gym mat, sweat dripping from his furrowed brow.

“Nat,” he grumbles, pressing his hand into the tender flesh, “I had my appendix removed in ‘39.” 

The realization strikes them both, simultaneously uttering, “well, shit.”

***

Waking from your appendectomy, you almost feel guilty for the first thought that comes to mind. 

“Hi sweetie!” Your mother coos from the chair in the corner of the room. Your father continues for her, “how do you feel, kiddo?” 

You grunt in response, groggy still. They both chuckle, but urge you to continue. “Shitty. Better knowing I’m not in danger of there being a literal organ explosion inside my body anymore, I guess. But…” 

Just then a nurse makes her way into your room to check your vitals now that you’re awake. She, too, urges you to go on, “but…?” 

“After the four years of shit my soulmate has thrown me, I almost feel a little glad that I could get back at them...even just a little bit.” 

The nurse give you a puzzled look over the edge of your file. Your dad fills her in, knowing how tired you are of explaining. 

“Either her soulmate’s one heck of a daredevil, gets in prison fights near constantly, or has a bad case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s…” he sighs, “it’s been tough.” 

“Well,” she smiles softly, patting your leg, “no wonder it took you so long to come in for that appendix of yours. It’s hard to tell what’s a real pain and what’s a Soul Ache sometimes. I hope you find him soon, sweetie.” Flashing a sizable diamond on her finger she giggles, “and I hope he’s as good as mine to make up for it.” 

You only groan, letting your head hit the pillow behind you, already wishing to be unconscious again. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little less PG in this chapter so I wanted to throw in a warning! Nothing too bad, but there are mentions of guns and said gun being pointed at the reader.

So Steve Rogers had a soulmate after all. 

Fuck. 

The appendicitis issue of 2015 clued him in, opened his eyes a little more. Between missions he was on edge looking for any sort of sign that they were really there. During missions he was even more of an anxious mess than before, because now there are even more stakes than before. Bigger, more personal stakes. 

He never used to worry about himself during a fight. Never! But suddenly he finds himself tiptoeing around dangers far smaller than he should. Thankfully his performance hasn’t suffered, not yet, but it’s getting terribly exhausting on him. 

As it turns out, 2015 was a terribly unlucky year for you. Only a few months after your appendectomy, you took a rough tumble on a patch of ice, and managed to break your leg in two separate places. Little stubbed toes and bumped noggins on your end hardly registered on his scale, if he even noticed them at all, but god did he feel that one. 

Two major incidents in such a short time was enough to convince him. You were real, you were  _ alive _ , and he had to find you, no matter the cost. It was a little selfish, he would admit. Of course he wanted to meet his soulmate for all the obvious reasons, to ease the tension on his heart and meet who the universe decided was his one true love. Mostly, though, he just didn’t want you to suffer. Sure, meeting your soulmate doesn’t sever your connection completely, but it severely dulls the pain of a Soul Ache, and the longer you’re together (if you’ll have each other), it fades even more. He wanted to meet his soulmate for their sake, really. 

It agonized him. He lay awake some nights, just recounting the particularly bad whomps from his latest fight. Did you feel the pain in the same way he did? Or was it worse for you because you didn’t have the heightened pain tolerance of Erskine’s serum? Is that why your pains were so dull on him? Good God, the thought tore him apart. 

It comforted him to know, at least, since your leg injury over a year ago, nothing on your end has hurt enough to get to him. 

But how are soulmates supposed to find each other in this world? It left him sour, thinking about it. What is the point of binding two souls with the promise of happily-ever-after if there’s no solid way of finding your other half. 

Steve shakes the thought from his head as he enters the bodega. He’ll have to talk to Stark, see if he has any ideas, but first, lunch. 

***

Stepping into your favorite corner deli, you hum a happy little tune. You twirl the cord to your headphones around your fingers idly while you stroll the aisles, looking at all the options. You had promised to make Heather dinner after the New Year’s party, as a thank you for always being so understanding. 

Ever since you started at your current job, the two of you have shared a cubicle wall. She caught on quickly that something was up, took note of your rapid, tight breaths, the little cries of agony that you tried to suppress whenever your soulmate got up to something during the workday. She took care of you, didn’t even judge when you told her the whole story, explaining that you thought they were dying within the first year of connecting, barely whispering, “sometimes I wish they did die.” 

She understood. Still, you felt the need to thank her every few weeks with dinner in your refrigerator box of a Brooklyn apartment. The store is relatively empty, one man sitting with his back to the store in the dining area, two teen boys giggling by the magazine rack, but otherwise your shopping is quick to finish without anyone in your way.

In line to check out, the label of your random wine choice has a hold of your attention when the click of a gun’s hammer registers right next to your ear. You can feel all the blood drain from your face and the grocery basket slip from your fingertips as your eyes lock onto the sight before you. 

Two men stand before you, in all black with their faces covered by woolen ski masks. If you weren't in immediate danger you may have even found their cliched wardrobe choices humorous. To your delight, the bell on the door rings as the two boys run out, but you don’t think you’ll be met with the same luck. One of the men is already negotiating with the cashier, insisting they don’t want any trouble, while the larger of the two keeps the barrel of his gun trained on your temple. 

Instinctually you raise your hands, sweaty palms out, and take a deep breath. The adrenaline in your veins somehow clears your head and stops you in your tracks at the same time. 

“In the corner,” he spits, nodding to his left. You nod and with your hands still up, slowly move into the corner he indicated. “On the fucking floor, don’t you  _ dare _ move or I’ll paint the walls with your brain.” After another beat he nods again, “and gimme your phone we don’t need you callin’ the pigs.” 

You do as he says, practically melting down the cooler doors and onto the floor, choking on your breath, and slide your phone across the tile floor to him. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears, tasting your pulse on your tongue when you realize you’ve bitten it. Tears stain your cheeks but you don’t dare move from your spot tucked between the frozen pizzas and motor oil. 

The man at the table has his hands up, but his head down, looking at his sandwich, before the gunman even gets to him. 

“You don’t really wanna do this, buddy.” His voice sounds so familiar, but you can’t get a good look at his face from where you sit. 

The cashier is cooperating, keeping the smaller man content for now, so you keep your eyes trained on this man, this stranger in the booth who you just know is up to something from the way he addressed the robber.

Plaster rains down onto the bodega when the man sends a warning shot into the ceiling. An involuntary squeak pulls at your lips, and you hug your legs to your chest, watching in near slow-motion as he cocks the gun again. 

“Get the fuck up, buddy, I’m not playing!”

“Funny,” the familiar voice says again, “neither am I.” 

The scene before you is a blur as the man in the booth turns around far too quickly, knocking the gun to the ground with his left hand, and landing a mean right hook into the other man’s jaw. 

He looks at you, concern in his eyes, and that’s when you realize why the voice sounded so familiar. You catch the intense stare of Captain America, his sharp jaw set in concentration. His hand motions for you to stay down (as if you had any argument) and his assailant recovers from the blow, rearing back to take his own swing at the Captain, fist striking his jaw so hard you swear you hear his knuckles crack. 

As soon as he connects, you feel the all too familiar burst of agony deep in your own bones. Shocked, you touch your fingertips to the spot. A soft gasp escapes your lips, but you dare not guess what it means. You’re watching this intensity so closely, spiked with adrenaline, the phantom pain could just be your brain imagining you’re the one in the fight. It’s hard to keep your attention on the action. You want nothing more than you squeeze your eyes tight and pretend to be somewhere else,  _ anywhere else _ but here, but no, you have to keep watching. Stay alert. Stay safe. The tussle continues to unfold in front of you, Captain Rogers faring much better than the robber, even without the cowl and shield. He catches a few good blows to the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. 

The hero then takes this opportunity to go for the man at the front of the store, grappling him away from the counter. You watch as the first man crawls around an aisle and out of your sight. Looking up to the security mirror in the corner opposite you, you see him grab the discarded gun off the floor, and try to utter a warning, a shout, anything, but you’re too late. 

He fires once, missing narrowly and shattering the glass of the deli case. Twice, the bullet grazes Captain Rogers’ outer thigh, and this time there is no denying the searing heat that slices through your skin in the same exact spot. You weep, a sob of pain and a shudder of relief racking your body at the same time as the bodega lights up red and blue. 

It's hazy, what follows. Knowing you’re safe, facing the truth you’ve been running from for years, it’s all too much, You watch through tears as the police and the Captain apprehend the 2 men together. Captain Rogers passes the man he holds by the shoulder off to the second police team, and they thank him for his help as they lead him away. The world seems to stand still for a moment, your blood still rushing in your ears, your eyes trained on the broad shoulders of the man before you. Your...soulmate? No. It can’t be. 

He makes sure the cashier is okay first, but as soon as one of the officers approaches to question the cashier, he quickly turns to you. He seems to cross the store in very few strides, offering you a hand to help you up. 

“Ma’am, are you alright?” 

Your eyes rake over his face, not knowing where to land. His blue eyes pierce your soul, his cheekbones are too sharp -- don’t look at his lips that’s so  _ weird _ \-- the blood trickling down his jawline is too harsh a reminder of the situation. You touch your hand to the same spot on your jaw again, only now realizing your other hand is still grasping his, even though you’re steady on your feet. 

“Uh,” you look down at your feet, trying not to let more tears spill. “I...I’m not hurt. If that’s what you mean.” 

He speaks softly, knowing full well that physical safety isn’t always the only issue, “that’s good. But I asked if you’re  _ okay _ .” He squeezes you forearm lightly, where his grip still lingers before you shake his hand away as if he’d burned you. 

“I...I think.” 

He nods tightly, turning his attention now to the officer who begs it. 

Another officer approaches you to get your statement, which you happily give as much as you can, but your eyes never leave the face of one Steve Rogers. She’s in the middle of asking you another question when you hear him mention something about needing to get back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. base to file a report of his own on this. 

“Wait!” You cry, interrupting the officer in front of you. “Mr.-Captain, uh, Captain Rogers-” 

He turns to you, tired, but with a polite smile. With his eyebrows raised, “yes ma’am?” 

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt, “I need you to punch me.” 

Behind you, you can hear the police officers chuckle. The one interviewing you flips her notebook shut with a snap and rolls her eyes. “I guess we got about as much as we could anyway. Captain, Ma’am, keep your phones close, we may call you with some follow up questions.” 

You both thank them quietly before he turns to you again. There’s a hint of amusement in his voice when he asks, “You need what now?” 

“Punch me. Or...I don’t know pinch me, stomp on my foot, just!! Please hurt me somehow.” 

He chuckles, “I understand it’s been a stressful afternoon, but I think you need to get some rest.” 

“No, but I --” 

He shakes his head with finality, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Ducking his head, he wishes you a good afternoon and starts to walk away. 

Words fail you. You have to get his attention, have to test your theory. Sure it could all just be a wild coincidence, but the dull ache in your thigh every time he takes another step convinces you otherwise. Thinking quickly, you spot the shattered glass from the deli case and pluck a rather jagged piece from the floor. You call for him again, slicing the palm of your left hand with the point of the glass and letting out a strangled whimper as the blood collects in your palm. 

He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes frozen on yours. The fingers of his left hand twitch, and he brings the hand up into his line of sight. He still isn’t convinced, not fully. Your eyes plead for him not to go. He reaches out for you, striding back to stand in front of you and takes your left hand in his right, gently caressing your fingers, and presses his thumb to the wound. Not hard, but enough for that extra twinge of hurt. You let out another strangled noise, and he clenches his left hand into a fist. 

“Oh God,” he sighs, pulling you into his chest. His hand still holds yours between your bodies, but his other arm curls around behind you to hold you in a bone-crushing embrace. “It’s you.” 


	4. Chapter 4

_“Oh God,” he sighs, pulling you into his chest. His hand still holds yours between your bodies, but his other arm curls around behind you to hold you in a bone-crushing embrace. “It’s you.”_

Relief washes over you the moment you’re wrapped in his embrace. Seconds ago, your mind was running nonstop, putting together all the pieces that just made sense, still panicking from what just went down and overthinking _everything._ Now, it’s all quiet. Soon, you’ll have all too much to worry about, but for now you can enjoy Steve Rogers’ warmth surrounding you. 

After what feels like hours, but in reality is probably only a few moments, he sighs. It’s a deep, melancholy sound and when he pulls back to hold you at arm’s length, it matches the sorrow etched in his expression. 

“I’m so sorry,” He breathes, dropping your hand to stroke your cheek, wiping away the tears there before tucking your hair behind your ear. “ _God_ , I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry?” You ask incredulously, “You -- you just saved my life why on Earth would you be sorry?” The fingers of your left hand twitch where it hangs at your side, spilling a drop or two of blood on the linoleum floor. Subconsciously, you clench your fist and hide it behind your back. His expression softens but there’s still a reluctance behind his eyes, and he winces when you reach out to caress his jaw. 

“That’s why.” He drops your gaze, looking to the floor and placing his hand atop yours, holding it closer to his cheek. “I didn’t think you existed for the longest time. Well, obviously _you_ exist,” he laughs uneasily and finally looks up at you. “But I thought any soulmate I had was already long gone up until a few years ago. Ever since that first time I felt you, since I’ve known that you’re here it’s...it’s been eating me up inside just how much torture I must be putting you through. I have,” another pause, “I have inadvertently put you through _hell_ for almost five years and I don’t even know your name.”

It's hard to focus on anything but Steve’s thumb lightly caressing yours, or the shine of barely-there tears highlighting the blue in his eyes. You have no real reason to trust him. Nothing but what the history books taught you growing up. Somehow, though, you do. You believe every word and every ounce of regret and sorrow in them. 

You whisper your name, accompanied with a giggle that’s music to his ears. Quickly, your surroundings become a lot more clear, the now throbbing ache in the palm of your hand and the deep red stain growing on his pant leg and the shattered glass all around your feet like ice in the winter. 

“Oh! Your hand, “ he says, as if reading your mind, reaching behind you for your wrist. Inspecting the gash on your palm closely, he hums, “it doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, but we’d better get you patched up. Mr. Garcia, do you have a first aid kit?” 

The owner of the bodega shakes his head in apology, “Steven, you know my son, the klutz. I’m afraid he’s already burned through most of our supply.” 

“Right,” he mumbles, then looks back at you, almost nervously, “well, um, my apartment is only about a block away, much closer than the nearest pharmacy, and I can get you fixed up in no time. What do you say?” 

After a brief hesitation on your part, you nod. 

Years of Stranger Danger training in elementary school bounce around in your head as he leads you out the door. By any means you shouldn’t be following a man you just met back to his apartment, especially over something as trivial as a cut that you could easily patch up yourself at home. Then again, this wasn’t any regular stranger. This was Captain America, World War II hero and avenger. This is Steve Rogers, a man you’ve read so much about, who now just so happens to be your _soulmate_. Perhaps your younger self could find it in her heart to forgive your lapse in judgement. 

The pair of you make brief small talk on the walk to his residence. If there's one thing nobody ever warned you about when meeting your soulmate it's just how awkward it can be, how you can feel so much so strongly for this person you didn’t know not ten minutes before, and still not have the slightest idea of how to talk to them or what about. 

He comments on the weather, the uncharacteristically sunny day for winter in New York. 

You mention the beauty of the trees dripping with crystallized ice as you walk past them, however you notice that when he agrees with a warm smile, he isn’t looking at the trees. He’s looking at you. 

When you reach his apartment, he holds the lobby door for you, leading you inside with a gentle hand on your lower back and up a flight and a half of stairs. Once inside the apartment itself, he shows you to the bathroom with a light flush on his cheeks. 

From what you can see, his apartment is bright and modern, a stark contrast to the industrial brick and copper adorning the lobby and exterior of the building. It has been clearly organized with care, but the table is littered with paperwork, the trash in the corner is spilling over, and a hoodie hangs off the back of the back of the couch carelessly. 

You stand awkwardly in the doorway as he rifles under the sink, holding your hand face up to avoid touching any of the crisp, white walls or shiny stainless steel surfaces. 

“Sorry about the mess,” he calls from inside the cabinet, “I, uh, I wasn’t expecting company any time soon.” 

“Hmm, if you call this a mess you’ll think my place is a dump. I get it, life happens.” 

You’re thankful for the lighter shift in the mood when he returns from under the sink with a first aid kit and a smile much brighter than before. “Come on into the light, we’ll get you all fixed.” While the bathroom is much larger than your own, it’s still cramped with both of your bodies inside. You find it difficult to find a space that’s comfortable and functional to stand, exchanging soft chuckles and breathy apologies in the space between you. With one final laugh, Steve reaches for your hips, turning and lifting you to sit on the countertop, effectively taking your breath away. “You okay?” 

“F-fine,” you stutter, heat rising in your cheeks. 

“Good. This will probably sting.” 

While he works, he asks about you. While at first it feels slightly forced, a little awkward, you start to tell him about your job, your hobbies, and answer any question he throws at you. When he reveals that the little bodega where you met is his go-to neighborhood spot, you ask him how it’s possible that you’ve never met up until now because it was yours as well. 

“So close, yet…” Smoothing out the tape at the end of the bandage, he smiles up at you through his lashes. “Somehow still so far. You’re good as new.” Before he relinquishes his grip on your hand, he punctuates the statement with a gentle press of his lips to your knuckles. 

The simple gesture catches you off guard, making you shy away from his gaze with a flush. 

“Thank you, Steve.” His first name on your lips still sounds so foreign. You’re so used to hearing him referred to as Captain, whether it be in the history books or the current news, but now in this intimate setting, that title doesn’t seem quite right either. You gesture to his leg, where he stands between your knees, “What about you? You were shot for Christ’s sake!” 

“What, that?” He dismisses the comment bashfully as if it were a joke hanging in the air, “barely grazed me. I can clean that up just fine, don’t worry about me.” 

You let out the breath you’d been holding, “I’ve been worried about you since 2011.”

If you could take back the comment, you would in a heartbeat. You can hear the breath hitch in his throat, his hands grip tighter on your thighs -- when had they landed there? You can see the guilt taking over his features and reach out to hold his face again, turning him to look at you and stroking his sharp cheekbones with your thumbs. 

“It’s okay.” You aren’t even sure what you’re justifying, but you just keep saying it. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Things are starting to make a lot more sense.”

He looks as though he’s about to respond when your cell phone ringing in your purse cuts him off. He steps away, allowing you to hop off the counter and retrieve your phone in the kitchen, “go ahead.”

Flashing in bold letters across your phone screen is the harsh reminder of just where you’re supposed to be right now. 

**_HEATHER - WORK_ **

“Hey! Hi! Please tell me you’re running late to my apartment?” You answer, all in one breath. 

Her laugh on the other end of the line is joyful. “Not quite, I’m at your door.” 

“Shit. Change of plans…” you look over to Steve with a bitten lip. He’s tending to his own wound in the bright bathroom light and stops when he feels your stare, looking up with a warm smile. “I can be home in 15, 20 minutes max, but we’ll have to order out instead. I can explain when I get there.” 

“Oh and what am I supposed to do, twiddle my thumbs while I sit on the floor of your hallway?” 

It’s your turn to laugh, “I’ll text you where my spare key is hidden, go ahead and help yourself to the wine cabinet and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

“Fine. But you better have one hell of an explanation when you get here.” She pauses, “and pick up more wine on the way I know you’re almost out.” 

Rolling your eyes, you end the conversation. “Goodbye, Heather.” 

Returning to the bathroom, you lean against the door again and watch Steve work. He’s more concentrated now, so he doesn’t notice when you walk up. He moves diligently, a carefully crafted precision to every movement, even in a task as simple as this. The fabric around his jeans has been cut away, and you find yourself wondering just how often something like this happens in his life. Surely torn fabric isn’t the only casualty Steve Rogers has suffered in his recent years. Nervous to draw his attention from the task at hand, you knock lightly on the door frame. 

Looking up from his lap, he grins, “everything alright?” 

Chewing on your lip, you nod ever so slightly. “Yeah, but I do have to go. Sorry to play doctor and run, but I have a friend already at my house for dinner.”

“No need to apologize,” he steps closer and leans his hip on the counter, reaching out with one hand to hold you by the waist. “I don’t think either of us expected _any_ of this to happen today.” 

“It feels a little redundant to thank you, but,” you clear your throat, unable to stop your smile from growing wider when his thumb strokes your side. “Thank you. For everything.” 

Smirking, he jokes, “all in a day’s work...and _anything_ for my soulmate.” 

“Oh that’s...that’s weird to hear.” 

“It is a little.” He runs his fingers through your hair again, this time letting his hand linger on the back of your neck. “We’ve still got a lot of figuring out to do, don’t we?” 

You don’t trust your wobbly lip to respond, and just give a soft nod. 

“Tell you what,” Steve takes your phone from your hands and dials a number, his own vibrating in his pocket. “I know you’ve got plans tonight but I would love the opportunity to take you out, have a real, proper first date and get to know you better. I can call you with the details?” 

“That sounds great,” you respond brightly. “I would love to.” 

His hand on the back of your neck pulls you forward, allowing him to leave a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead. Warmth bursts in your cheeks and in the spot where his lips touch your skin. 

Stepping away to leave his apartment, you give a small wave, wondering if anyone else involved in an armed robbery can say that it changed their life in such a positive and profound way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the positive feedback already. Coming out of my self proclaimed "fan fic retirement" has been a really therapeutic way to spend my time off of work during this lockdown. 
> 
> While the core of this story was only supposed to be so long, I have a few plans for one shots set in the same universe, so don't be surprise if I turn this fic into a collection soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. SO sorry it took literally half a damn year to post this last chapter. I have absolutely no excuse other than that I'm trash. Thank you for sticking with me, if you did!! <3 <3

Smoothing the folds from your dress, you let out a shaky breath and strike a nervous pose in the floor length mirror before you. 

"What do you think?" You ask, turning to Heather, who insisted on coming over to dress you for your first date with Steve. 

Internally, you're still freaking out a little bit. How does one go from having no soulmate at all, to a soulmate who you think is  _ dying _ , only to find out that soulmate is an  _ Avenger  _ and  _ not  _ lose their mind at least a little bit? 

With a proud smile, the petite woman steps up behind you in the mirror. Before she says anything, she twirls one of the curls framing your face between her fingers to smooth it out, and brushes imaginary lint from the off-shoulder sleeves of your dress. 

"You're gonna knock him dead." 

"I dunno," you sigh, fussing with the hem of the dress near the daring slit that goes way farther up your thigh than you were usually comfortable. "I feel overdressed, maybe I should-" Before you can continue, she swats your hand away with a frustrated sigh of her own. 

"Stop. You look amazing, here," she passes you a lipstick from your vanity, a bold, classic red to compliment your simple cat-eye liner. "Where did you say he was taking you anyway?" 

"We're getting dinner in Brooklyn, I think he said some place called the River Café?" 

At the name of the restaurant, her eyes are the size of saucers. A pang of anxiety dances through your veins, a stunned silence from Heather can only mean something is either incredibly wrong, or so very, very right. She sees your panic and quickly shuts it down. "Dude that place is fancy as  _ hell _ . I promise, you're dressed perfectly, and that man is going to be speechless when he sees you." 

There's a knock at your door, and you no longer have time to second guess her anymore. She simply squeals at you excitedly through bared teeth and pushes you out of your bedroom and toward the front door. 

Before you answer it you take one more steadying breath, which proves useful when you do swing the door open. The sight of Steve before you leaves you breathless. You allow your eyes to drift over his form. From his slightly bowed head and polite smile, to the crisp, pressed white dress shirt stretched deliciously taut over his broad shoulders, you make note of the top two buttons undone. He's paired it with tailored, navy dress pants, and the matching suit jacket is folded over his forearm where he straightens the band of his watch. You definitely notice the way his eyes drag up your body before meeting your own as well. 

"... _ hi _ ," you breathe, smoothly. 

"Hi yourself," Steve greets, "you look…" 

Where he trails off, you can't stop yourself from finishing yourself, "wow."

His smile brightens, "my thoughts exactly. You're radiant." Heat crawls up your neck as you shy away from his intense gaze. Slinging the jacket over one shoulder, he offers you his arm, "shall we?" 

The drive to the restaurant is pleasant. The pair of you make small talk between the GPS commands. Steve asks you more about your job, letting you jump into an animated story about your newest project. You flush again when you notice how focused and attentive he is, even with something as menial as your office life. He offers his own related work anecdotes and quips about how paperwork is universally the worst part of any job, often turning to offer you bright smiles and soft laughs. 

When you get to the restaurant, Steve parks in a nearby garage and turns to you. "I hope you don't mind a short walk to the café. The view along the way is just as good as the food." 

"Not at all! I've lived in New York for years now but I've never really seen much outside of work and, well, our neighborhood." You reach for the door handle, but he stops you. 

"Wait there," he says hurriedly, hopping out the driver's side door and running around to open yours for you. With a gracious smile, he shuts it behind you. "There, better." 

"You're too much," you say softly, shaking your head. "Thank you." 

He leads you along the riverfront, seasonal blooms canopy the walkway and fairy lights crawl up the tree trunks, giving the path a soft glow. You can almost make out the skyline through the trees, and the noise of New York City is dull and distant. You walk with a loose grip on his elbow, your shoulders bumping every so often in step. For the most part the walk is quiet, both of you enjoying the sights, but every so often Steve will point out a small corner store that's been there since his childhood, or a street name that he once lived on before the war. It's strange, just how normal it feels to hear his stories from so long ago. He shines when he speaks of the past, and he speaks so personally about a time you'd only ever imagined from schoolbooks, you could honestly listen to him talk about nothing forever, so long as he keeps smiling that smile that wrinkles the corners of his eyes. 

The foliage above you thickens, more and more brightly colored flowers lining the sidewalk. Some seem out of season, but their bright colors just bring more beauty to the auburn scenery. You come up on the restaurant, a beautifully glass-enclosed building with green and white striped awnings over the entry. Once again he holds the door open for you, and you have half a mind to explain that it's really not necessary, but some small part of you definitely enjoys the chivalry, so you keep tight-lipped. The inside is just as ornately decorated, with large, leafy plants in the corners and picturesque, black trimmed windows lining the whole back wall. 

Behind the hostess stand, a portly Italian man shouts excitedly when you enter. 

"Ah! Captain Rogers, my friend! So good to see you again!" He shakes Steve's hand animatedly and turns to bow his head at you, "and in such lovely company." 

He leads the two of you to a table along the windowed wall, candle lit and covered in a delicate cloth, and wishes you the best meal. 

Once seated, you wiggle your eyebrows across the table at Steve, already giggling at your own joke. "Wow, people treat you like a  _ celebrity  _ around here! You must feel special." 

"I do feel special," he murmurs, leaning in on his forearms, a sly half-smile on his face, "but only because you're the one here with me." 

You're certain that moment would have given you butterflies even if the man across the table from you wasn't your soulmate. Maybe this will be easier than you thought. 

Over salad, you learn more about Steve. The things no historian could ever teach you. He recounts his passion for art, a hobby he picked up when he was bed-ridden with a broken leg in the thirties, one that he's carried with him through the years. He has you in stitches when he recalls the time Tony Stark caught Steve sketching him during a debrief a while back.

"He made the biggest fuss!" He chuckles, speaking his head in disbelief. "Called me out to Fury like a schoolboy caught passing notes. And then he had the audacity to ask to buy the drawing after I got chewed out." 

"You're kidding!" You snort, and immediately your hands fly to your face to hide your shame. "You did  _ not  _ hear that!" 

Immediately, he bites back a comment. You can see the jest behind his eyes. "Hear what? I don't know what you mean,  _ nothing  _ incredibly adorable just happened." 

The waiter interrupts your argument with your entrees, the savory scent pulling you away from any thoughts. You don't talk much as you enjoy the main course, stealing quick glances and content smiles, trading comments on the quality of the food. 

With your plates pushed to the middle of the table, you both lean in towards each other, talking quietly, the candles illuminating your features. The waiter stops by to clear the plates and take your dessert order, and when he leaves, you reach to place your hand on Steve's side of the table. He takes the hint and gladly covers it with his own, locking your fingers and stroking your thumb with his. 

"All jokes aside, how do you know the owners here? They seem incredible." 

"Oh, they are!" He nods enthusiastically. "Tony actually introduced us. He hosted some sort of benefit here a couple years back, and after it was done I got talking to Sal, the gentleman who sat us, and his wife while helping clean up."

You quickly cut him off with a playful, "Steve Rogers, you  _ saint _ ." 

He waves off the comment and continues, "Anyway, it turns out I knew his Grandpa Vinny back in the 40s. He actually served with the 107th, got discharged just before the attack in Italy and they had ol' Sal's dad two years later." He smiles wider when you squeeze his hand, his eyes practically twinkling in the candlelight. His face falls slightly, "sorry...it must be pretty weird hearing me talk about that stuff." 

"Not...really." You sigh, both of you leaning back when your desserts arrive, thanking the waiter. "I thought it would be, but you know, it's really nice. Don't take this the wrong way but before tonight you really didn't seem...real, I guess?" He quirks an eyebrow but lets you continue, his thumb still tracing yours. "Like, I learned about you in school. I saw you on TV with the other Avengers and you seemed like a character to me. And then when we met, we were both so swept up in the whole soulmate thing. You went from being one enigma to another, somehow MORE mysterious one. Tonight I get the REAL Steve. You're just a man, an incredibly handsome man, opening himself up to someone new, and I feel so lucky to be on the other end of that." 

This time, it's him that blushes, his sharp features softening under the rosy hue. Across the room he catches Sal's eye and waves him toward you. As he approaches, Steve whislers, "I've got an idea." 

"Yes, my friend, what can I do for you?" 

"Would it be possible to get these desserts wrapped up?" As he asks, you suddenly remember the tiramisu and New York style cheesecake in front of you, both entirely untouched. Before you even get the chance to argue, he's also reaching for his wallet to hand Sal his card before the stout man walks away. He turns back to you, "there's somewhere else I want to take you." 

With your desserts wrapped up and plastic cutlery tucked delicately in your purse, Steve leads you back out into the chilly night. You let your hand drop from his elbow to tangle your fingers with his. Your palm stings where the deep cut has yet to heal fully, but the warmth of his body next to yours is comforting. You walk through a scenic park, the wind sweeping in off the water to your left, making you shiver. 

Steve bends to speak to you, his breath hot on the shell of your ear, sending another unrelated shiver down your spine. "Would you like my jacket?" 

"Won't you be cold then?" You tease, "I did this to myself, I can suffer." 

"Ah, but what kind of a man would I be if I let that happen?" He doesn't even give you time to protest further, shrugging out of the navy material and draping it over your exposed shoulders. You're enveloped in the warmth from his body and the sharp, masculine smell of his cologne, and now gladly accept the offer, slipping your arms into the sleeves before curling into his side once more. 

While you didn't necessarily know where you were headed, your destination soon made itself clear when you step into the wide clearing. An expanse of concrete leads up to an observation deck overlooking the river, but the main focus, nestled in the center, is Jane's Carousel. You can feel your face light up at the sight, and bounce on the balls of your feet. Steve's eyes don't leave your face, delighting in your excitement as you approach the line. 

"I used to love coming here as a kid." He muses, looking up at the flashing lights. "Bucky would always take his dates here, but I liked to just come and people watch. Did some of my best sketches from those benches over there." 

He points to the benches surrounding the carousel, now filled with parents watching their children enjoy the ride. 

"This was the first place I wanted to visit when I came to the city," you tell him, "but I never actually made it, because all my connections in the city have lived here for years, they called it a tourist trap." 

Steve buys two tickets from the teller, and leads you to the front of the line, passing off the tickets to a bored-looking teen who pulled back the rope to let you on. 

Your hands, still entwined, swing lightly between your bodies as you seek out a bench seat. 

"I'm glad I got to be the one to take you," he says, warmly, sitting next to you in the elaborately painted carriage seat. "I'm really glad I finally met you, (Y/N)." 

Giving his hand in yours an affectionate squeeze, you lay your head on his shoulder, desperately trying to hide the blush rising on your cheeks. “I am, too, Steve.” You mumble, bringing his hand up to place a mindless kiss on his bruised knuckles. “I still can’t believe this is happening, honestly, that I found you and that this is  _ real. _ ” The playful music of the carousel swells around you as it lurches into motion, and you can’t help but look up at the lights with wonder. 

He hums, murmuring a soft, “hey.”

You feel his gentle touch at your chin, his fingers guiding you to get a good look at his face. It’s not the same polite smile you’re used to seeing on the news, the look he gives you is much deeper, more genuine. His joy crinkles the corners of his eyes, the same vibrant blush that you saw at the restaurant burning the tips of his ears. Shining blue eyes drift from yours, down to where you bite your lower lip, then back again. As soon as your lip rolls free from between your teeth, Steve is leaning in, a light hand resting at the back of your neck. He stops, just before he reaches your lips, ever the gentleman giving you the opportunity to turn him away, as if you would ever dare. You surge forward, slotting your lips against his with a gleeful little hum in the back of your throat. Steve sighs, actually  _ sighs  _ in relief as he pulls you in closer to him. The kiss is slow and gentle at first, a chaste press of the lips, but it’s enough to make you melt into his embrace. Simply put, it feels like home. He pulls back, suddenly bashful, resting his forehead against yours with softly shut eyes. 

“How’s it feelin’ now?” He asks, as your fingernails scratch through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “A little more real?” 

“I dunno,” you chuckle, flashing a cheeky grin. “Maybe we should try again and I’ll report back.” 

As he pulls you in again, the carousel comes to a stop. Teenagers whistle and hoot as they pass you, children giggle, but you pay them no mind. The world around you is fuzzy, the only thing you can focus on are Steve’s lips against yours. 

You have a lot to figure out, a lot to get to know about each other...but here in this moment, wrapped up in his arms and the scent of him, you can say it with confidence, 

You have found your soulmate in Steve Rogers.


End file.
